


Clair(e)voyance 2.0

by notevenjokingfic



Series: Clair(e)voyance [2]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 08:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenjokingfic/pseuds/notevenjokingfic





	1. 2.1:  Second Base

Second base.

Again.

He drove home like a madman thankful for the police ID in his pocket that would get him out of any traffic tickets or minor infractions.

Walking through his flat he started shedding his clothes, dropping them on the floor as he moved. Jacket. Shirt. Belt. Shoes kicked off in the hallway. Trousers and boxers shucked on the bathroom floor. 

He turned on the spray. Ripped off his socks. Stepped into the shocking cold flow.

_Don’t think of her. Don’t think about her. _

But he couldn’t help himself. Claire was never far from his thoughts. 

He bent his head against the tile. Body wound tight. Frustration pulsed through him. He was painfully aroused. Again. She wasn’t ready, and that was fine. 

Dammit. 

One minute with her in his arms, one minute with his mouth on hers, one minute of her grinding on him, and he was fit to bursting. He knew she wanted him. They’d get so far, and she’d freeze. He could feel when the sexual tension turned to psychological torture. 

He’d never been this in tune with a woman. 

Ever.

He turned towards the spray. Lifted his wrists so the cold hit his pressure points. He was shivering now. Good. Far away, a sound penetrated his ear. 

He stuck his head out of the shower. His mobile was ringing. Stepping out he fumbled through his trouser pockets for his cell. So much for not thinking about her.

“Claire.” It came out huskier than he meant. 

“I’m sorry.” She sounded small. Ashamed. 

He cleared his throat. “Nothing to be sorry for. It’s fine, Sorcha.”

“It’s not, Jamie. It’s not.” She sounded angry. Despairing. “It’s teasing. And I hate myself for it.”

“Nay. It’s just makin’ out.” The puddle on the floor was expanding. Jamie reached to grab a towel. 

She didn’t respond. He could just picture her, sitting in the middle of her disheveled bed. Riotous curls. Fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. He started to stir again. He ignored himself. 

Cold water was plentiful. 

“Claire,” he spoke simply, his tone soft. “I’m a grown man. I can handle this. Yer worth the wait.”

“I’m not very good at this,” she whispered. 

“Ha!” Jamie genuinely laughed. “If tonight was ye not being good, I won’t survive when ye bring yer A-Game.” He heard a slight chuckle over the line. “Besides. I’m no’ worried. We’ll get there.” 

She was silent. He wished she would say something. 

“Ye do realize my end goal is to get in yer pants, aye?”

Claire laughed. _There. All better now, _he thought. 

“But -” Claire hesitated. Could she tell him? Honestly?

“What, mo nighean donn? Tell me.” He ran a frustrated hand through his wet curls. 

“It’s just,” she rushed through the rest, “you seem angry when you leave.”

Jamie was surprised. _Is that what she thought? Truly?_ He tucked the ends of the towel he was holding tighter around his waist. 

“Angry? Nay, Claire. Shaking with want, yes. Desirous, yes. But no’ angry.” 

He put the lid down, and sat on the toilet seat. “How do I get ye to see? When yer in my arms, yer like fire. Ye press, and ye grind, and ye want. And it’s fantastic.” He licked his lips, his tongue searching for words. 

“But, what happens, Sorcha? Yer fine when I kiss yer breasts. When I take yer nipple in my mouth.”

Claire made a small sound.

“But yer not fine when I….when I slide my hands inside yer jeans.” He lowered his voice to the tone he used with witnesses. Witnesses who needed to feel safe, and at ease. “Tell me Claire. What happens?”

“I’m just…I’m not good at this.” Her voice was clipped. He was losing her. 

Jamie sniffed, controlling his anger. So many thoughts were running through his head. He’d been a police officer a long time. He’d had cases where married women were victims of their husbands. For about the thousandth time he thanked God that Frank Randall was dead. 

“Claire Randall, let me make this perfectly clear. Ye kiss me, and I shake. Ye run yer hands under my shirt, and I burn. And when ye lay on top of me, and press yer hips into mine I harden. Yer more than good, and if we’re bein’ honest ‘tis I who worries about pleasing you.”

He heard her gasp. 

“So. I’m gonna head back into my arctic shower,” he said as flippantly as he could, “and I will see ye tomorrow.”

He imagined her nodding, since she didn’t answer.

“Oh! And Sorcha?”

“Yes?” Still tentative.

“Pray for a really great case so I’ve an excuse to be in the morgue. D.C.I. Grey is on to me. He knows I’ve a wee crush on the M.E.”

Claire giggled. “’Night, Jamie.”

“Good night.” 

He disconnected the call. The desire to throw his phone against the wall was very strong. Damn it to hell, he hated how she hurt. Instead, he flicked off the towel, turned on the spray once more, and stepped one foot into the shower.

Before he could submerge himself his phone rang again.

New Scotland Yard.

God willing it was a case that would provide a massive distraction.


	2. 2.2:  The Funeral Home

> Jamie walked toward the building raising his shoulders in question. “Strange place to be called for a homicide, no?” he said in the way of greeting.
> 
> D.C. Angus Mohr shrugged back. “They said once they saw the body, they knew they had to report it.”
> 
> Jamie stopped beside the small, wiry officer. Angus Mohr was not very well liked on the force. He was brash. Rude. Drank too much. But he had a way of getting information from people that helped get cases solved. Both men looked up at the illuminated sign.
> 
> Crook Family Funeral Home.
> 
> Angus nudged Jamie, and headed for the front door.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “So,” Jamie said, “it was a routine call. Routine pick up. Until you got back here.”
> 
> “Well, no.” said the tall, thin woman. “We were called by the family straight away. Well, we thought it was straight away. Went to the house. We waited for a bit. Let them say goodbye. We always do that, you know, so much nicer than just barging in and taking the body.” Her eyes pleaded with Jamie to understand. “When they said to take him, we covered him, loaded him in the van, and brought him here.”
> 
> “And that’s when ye saw the…” He wasn’t sure what you could call what he saw on the boy’s body.
> 
> “Yes,” Mrs. Crook said. “It didn’t seem normal. My husband and I have run a funeral home for a very long time, Detective Sergeant. We’ve seen a lot. But not this.”
> 
> Jamie looked down at the boy. “So, what was different? I mean, ye said it wasn’t routine.”
> 
> “Well,” the woman began, “he was sort of laid out. Like he’d been dead a while, but they’d dressed him, you see. And laid him on his bed.”
> 
> The hair on the back of Jamie’s neck prickled. He looked over at D.C. Angus Mohr. The little man raised his eyebrows and stroked his beard absentmindedly. 
> 
> “Are ye sayin’ he didn’t die at home?”
> 
> “It didn’t seem that way. We never asked, to be honest. It wasn’t until we brought him here and got started on preparations that we suspected something was amiss.” 
> 
> Jamie nodded and looked around. “His clothes?”
> 
> “In the bag, here,” Mrs. Crook said.
> 
> Jamie nodded again. “Ok. The two of ye,” he turned toward Angus, and his partner, Rupert MacKenzie, “Tag it, and take the bag to the lab. I want to know if there’s anything on the clothes. Anything. Maybe we’ll find trace evidence to help us figure out where he was. Or maybe whoever did this left a hair behind, or something. We need somewhere to start.”
> 
> Rupert looked at Jamie. “Yes, Sir.”
> 
> He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Crook again. “I ken it’s late, but would ye mind giving these gentlemen yer formal statement? I need to make a call.”
> 
> Jamie excused himself and stepped outside to use his phone.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “Jamie?” Her voice was breathy. Sexy. Dreamy. He’d woken her up.
> 
> “Sorcha.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was alone. “I need ye to come to a scene for me.” 
> 
> “Oh.” She sounded a bit less befuddled. “What’s happened?”
> 
> He could hear the rustle of her bed sheets. Could tell she was moving now.
> 
> “It’s tricky. I need ye to come and take a look wi’ me.” 
> 
> They hung up, and Jamie texted her the address. He looked over at the lights spilling from the building.
> 
> Funeral Home. Such an oxymoron. Homes were safe. Welcoming. Loving.
> 
> Everything the boy lying in there seemed to lack. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> She had climbed out of the Uber all business. Black bag in hand. A brief nod to him. A stern warning to Mohr and MacKenzie not to taint the evidence. Then she brushed past him and entered the building. 
> 
> Jamie rested a broad shoulder against the door jamb and watched Claire work. She asked three questions. What time did the family call? What time did the body get to the Funeral Home? Had they touched him at all outside of normal procedure?
> 
> Satisfied, she dug out her phone and called for an ambulance. 
> 
> Claire looked at Jamie. “I’ll need to do a postmortem. I’m having him transported to the morgue. But -” she looked over at the Crooks, “I need you to sign a release form for me,” she looked back at Jamie, “and I need you to get permission from the family so I can look at him.”
> 
> When the ambulance arrived she gave explicit instructions for the body to be put in refrigeration until permission could be granted. It was late. There was no way she would intrude on the boy’s parents tonight. 
> 
> Standing in the parking lot, Jamie used his best professional voice. “Can I give ye a lift home, Doctor Randall?”
> 
> Claire glanced around. The Crooks were locking up and gave her a little wave. The attendants were busy shutting doors so they could leave. No one cared.
> 
> “Yes. Thank you, Detective Sergeant, that would be helpful.” She adopted her most professional tone, just in case.
> 
> They rode back to her place in silence. Each lost in their thoughts. The tension, palpable.
> 
> When he pulled up next to her townhouse he put the car in park, and waited. 
> 
> Claire didn’t move. She clutched her medical bag so tightly he could see her knuckles turning white. 
> 
> He left her place only two hours ago. 
> 
> What happened now would be her call.
> 
> The street light bounced off the bonnet of the car. 
> 
> Stark. Harsh. Like a naked light bulb in a film noir, forcing a witness to crack, to say what they didn’t want to say, to reveal what they’d rather keep hidden. 
> 
> “Would you like to come in?” she whispered. 
> 
> He knew what this was costing her. She was asking for another chance. She was hoping. Hoping he hadn’t given up on her. 
> 
> Jamie pushed his arms against the steering wheel, locking his elbows. He looked out of the side window. 
> 
> Taking a deep breath he turned his head slowly and met Claire’s eyes. 
> 
> “Claire.” He watched her be brave and meet his gaze. She straightened a little in her seat. “Claire, if I come in…now…I’m no’ goin’ home before dawn. I’m no’ sleepin’ on the floor, or the settee.” 
> 
> He watched the pulse quicken at the base of her throat.
> 
> “If I come in, mo neighean donn, I’m in yer bed and between yer legs.”
> 
> He watched as she blinked hard. Swallowed. Nodded. Watched as she gathered her composure. 
> 
> She groped for the door handle, and pulled it open. 
> 
> “Fine,” she said, her tone haughty. “I won’t bother making tea, then.”


	3. 2.3:  Jamie's Home Run

He stepped into the foyer, and heard her close the door behind him. 

Heard the lock slide home.

The house was dark, save one weak light tumbling down the stairs from the upper floor.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He heard Claire open her hall closet, and set her medical bag inside. 

“Sorcha-” His voice sounded loud in the stillness of the house. He suddenly felt guilty. Selfish. Dictatorial. 

Like Frank.

“Don’t.” She slid the closet door closed, then proceeded to wring her hands in worry. 

_How does one go forward? How does one become vulnerable to something that was once so shaming? I can’t hear the word ‘unsatisfied’ again. Or see closed eyes and wonder who he’s thinking about. But if the door continues to be slammed in his face will he walk? And I don’t want to risk that either. _

_Jesus, what DO I want??_

He waited. 

She stepped up to him then, took his hand in hers, and led him slowly up the staircase. 

* * *

He was back where he started just hours before. Claire in his arms with his mouth on hers. This. They had perfected this. Kissing Claire was exquisite. 

He paced himself by the sounds she made. Measured her arousal. Soft sounds. Mewling noises. Breathy grunts. Low moans that hummed in her throat. 

He went first, peeling off his shirt, tossing it aside. She watched, her hands like butterfly wings over his chest, his shoulders. 

Jamie was beautiful. Strong. Muscled. Honed. 

His body was somewhat intimidating, if she was honest. But she reminded herself that _he_ made her feel beautiful. _He_ made her feel wanted. She grabbed the hem of her shirt and did the same. And before she could talk herself out of it, she shed her bra. 

He reached out a hand. Slowly. Softly. Touching her skin. _Appreciating_ her body. He cupped her breast, and smiled that half-smile of his. 

“Bòidheach,” he whispered. She remembered that word. He said it often. _Beautiful._

_Be brave, Claire. This is Jamie. He doesn’t compare you to a twenty-something college student. Beautiful. He finds you beautiful. You are beautiful. _She took the next step, and peeled off her jeans. 

She giggled as Jamie rushed to remove his, unbalancing himself in his hurry to comply. He laughed with her at their awkwardness. 

“There goes the notion that I’m some kind of playboy,” he grinned. 

She liked that. Liked that he could poke fun at himself. She turned toward the bed and froze. _Good God, now what?_

Jamie reached from behind her to move the cover. He lay back, propped up by her headboard. Reached out a hand to her. 

“We’ve done this before, too,” he said softly, leaving his hand raised. 

He was right. Well, almost right. They’d never done this without trousers on. 

His hand remained outstretched. 

Steady. Patient. 

She took it, and straddled him. Sat back on his lap. He was hard already. 

Jamie took a deep breath. The pressure of her on his arousal was Heaven. The heat between her legs was more than he could stand, but stand it he would. 

This needed to be slow. Gradual. Easy. 

He slid his hands around her hips to cup her bottom. Leaned forward to kiss her. She was tentative. Shy. He could feel her holding back. He didn’t need to revisit his psychology classes to know why. She’d been cheated on. 

Used. Discarded. Used again. 

She was both scared and scarred. 

But somewhere between the promise of temperance and patience, the fire ignited, then raged. 

Claire forgot to be timid. Jamie forgot to be passive. 

He was just so damn different than Frank. His body felt different under her hands. He was harder. Hotter. Tasted saltier. He didn’t kiss with practiced ease but with desperation. 

He moved differently. His hands grabbed. Stroked. Rubbed. He filled his hands with her.

Nothing was methodical. Rote. It didn’t feel like a process.

It felt sinful. Like honest to goodness carnal lust. 

_This is what they mean by fucking_, she thought. That want. That need. That absolute c_raving _forhim_. _Her tongue searched, tasted, licked. She couldn’t remember being so driven to have a man. 

He could barely keep up with her. She grabbed at his hands. Placed them where she wanted them. She twisted her hips to feel what she wanted to feel. To satisfy herself in the moment. She nipped at his mouth. Bit his lips. He flinched once, hissed in a breath. She stopped, eyes wide. He ignored the pain. Nipped at her breast to show her he was just as out of control.

And she talked. God, how she talked. 

Urged him on with words. More. Here. Harder. Again. 

Their bodies were slick with the sweat of their lovemaking. She reached for the waistband of his underwear more times than he could count but each time he distracted her. He wouldn’t let her remove them. Couldn’t. Once that barrier was broken it would be over. 

And this was way too much fun to end anytime soon. 

He flipped her on her back. Kissed his way down her body. Removed the last bit of cloth between them. Settled himself between her thighs where her skin was the softest. The barest of kisses now. When he placed his mouth on her, on that highly sensitive spot, the response was immediate. 

She bucked. Hard. 

He started slow, giving her time to build. She writhed. Stroked his head. He increased the pressure. 

And then something changed in her.

She twined her fingers in the hair at his crown. Tugged. Pulled. Almost dislodged him.

“I can’t,” she breathed, trying to move away from him.

“Aye, ye can,” he breathed back. Bent to his task again. 

“No, stop. I can’t.” She batted at his arms.

_She’s no’ serious. She canna be serious._ He risked a glance. She was lost in the sensations. He could see that. She just didn’t trust them. Had it been that long since someone had seen to her pleasure? That long since she recognized what was building and how to relax enough to let it happen?

“Ye’ve seen it. Ye can. Ye know ye can.” 

He held her legs tight. Fastened his mouth hard, moved his tongue rhythmically. 

She moaned. Twisted. Pushed at his shoulders. Slapped at his head. 

“Let go, Claire,” he breathed against her. “Let go, mo graidh. Trust me.”

He concentrated on his task. Listened to the rising sound of the noises she made that told him she was close. Could feel the muscles in her body contract. 

He increased his pressure. 

_Give in, Claire. _Dual thoughts. 

She heard his thought as clearly as she had her own. And it frightened her, this connection. 

He pushed her legs farther apart. Sucked harder. 

The wave hit her brain the same time her body released. She could feel it. The sweet release. Jamie moaned in pleasure, his mouth savouring her response. 

Her breath came short. Her mouth dry, like she’d run a marathon.

She felt the rasp of his stubble on her inner thighs. She couldn’t move. She felt languid. Boneless. Exhausted. 

He moved then, and she felt the heat of him over her. Slowly she opened her eyes. 

He was smiling. No. Not smiling. 

Grinning. 

A smug, glorious grin that had her smiling back. 

“Proud of yourself?” she whispered, reaching up to stroke his face.

“Oh, aye. Hard work, that. Ye she-devil,” he said, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip where she bit him. He kissed her then, and she felt a twinge low in her belly. How could it be that she wasn’t finished wanting him?

She reached for his waistband, and he let her. Finally.

But she knew what would happen. What always happened.

He covered her with his body. Braced himself on his forearms. Quickly, Claire reached up and hugged him around the neck, bringing him down fully on top of her. 

“This is the part where you don’t expect too much,” she said into his ear. “This is the part I’m not good at.” 

“Claire,” he tried to raise up but she wouldn’t let him. He felt one hot tear on his shoulder. 

“Claire, please.” His heart squeezed tight. She hugged him tighter. 

For the first time ever, he wished Frank Randall were alive. _I wish ye were here right now to watch me take yer wife, and do what ye couldna do. Ye bastard._

Jamie rolled to his side taking Claire with him. He kissed her then. Trying to tell her what she wouldn’t believe. That she was beautiful, and sexy, and sensual. When he felt her relax into his kisses he touched her again. Her hips twitched. _Good, still sensitive. _He slid his fingers inside her. Stroked her. Felt her body respond. 

Her moved over her again, nudged her knees apart. And watched her. Her head was turned on the pillow, away from him. It felt wrong, to enter her like this. But how else to show her? How else to prove to her? 

He moved then. Slowly. Steadily. Watched her every movement, looked for any discomfort. He slid home. 

Her eyes flew open. She turned her head sharply to look at him.

“Okay?” he asked, unsure of her reaction.

“My God,” she breathed. 

He slid a hand down her body to urge her legs higher on his hips. Watched her eyes widen again as he ground himself into her. 

He flexed his hips. Slowly. Over. And over. He watched her amber eyes darken. Her lips part. Her breath become shallow. 

It was intoxicating, making love to her. She was everything he knew she would be. If this was what she saw between them, no wonder it stopped her in her tracks. 

Her body answered him. He quickened his pace to meet hers. Her hands were all over him again. In his hair. Holding on to his bottom. Clasping his neck. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the feel of her. 

Hot. Soft. Tight. The sensation of her gripping his hips. 

“You feel so different,” she muttered. “So very different.” 

He grit his teeth waiting for her. Determined to drive the demons out of her. Replace the shadows that lived in her memory. And when he felt her tighten around him, her muscles contracting, he let go. 

He let go and gave himself to her. Body, mind, heart and soul. 

_God. How she owned his soul._

They lay tangled together, drowsy and contented, both on the edge of sleep. But Jamie needed to know something first. 

“Sorcha?” he whispered. She stirred slightly. “What did ye mean, I felt different?” He brushed the curls back from her face.

“I don’t know. Fuller, I guess.”

Jamie chuckled low in his throat. _Take that, ye bastard_, he thought. 

“In my heart…” she said, her voice trailing off. Sleep was fast approaching. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Jamie kissed her forehead and held her closer. “Dinna fash, mo graidh. I ken fine what ye mean.” 

He had felt it, too. Like his heart was going to burst. 

* * *

The ringing of his phone woke him from a dead sleep. He jumped, rolled out of bed to retrieve it from the floor. 

“’ello?” He cleared his throat.

“Where in the BLOODY HELL are you?” The voice on the other end was sharp, clipped, and very angry.

“Sleepin’” Jamie was wide awake now. “I was up until 3 a.m. working a case.”

“Well, I’ve some VERY angry parents in my office right now wanting to know where the HELL their son is, and why the HELL he’s not being prepared for a funeral!” 

Jamie scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked over at Claire. She was awake now, and looking like she was about to faint. 

“Ask them for permission to do an autopsy.” Jamie was up and putting on his jeans, phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder.

“I WILL NOT!” came the outrage from the other end. “And where in the HELL is that M.E.?”

Claire sat bolt upright. Jamie grinned.

“I dinna ken!” He grabbed his underwear from the floor, shrugged and shoved them into his jeans pocket. Claire giggled. 

“Listen, Sir. It’s important ye secure permission for an autopsy. I’m on my way. I’ll fill ye in then.” 

He disconnected the call, cutting Chief Inspector John Grey off in mid-screech.

He pocketed his phone and looked at her. 

“It’s no’ how I wanted to spend my morning, Sorcha, but I need to go.” 

“It’s fine. I’ll see you later.” Claire would not regret what she’d done. He was rushing out because he had to, not because he wanted to.

He crawled across the bed and planted a kiss full on her lips. “Aye, I’m countin’ on it.” 


	4. 2.4:  The M.E.'s Report

They refused to answer questions for Chief Inspector Grey. They refused to talk to Jamie. They refused to allow anyone to touch their son.

In the end, Claire asked to see the death certificate only to discover that no doctor had been called to declare the young man dead. That tiny loophole gave her the leverage she needed to have the Coroner request an autopsy.

Which was how she found herself in the morgue, just her and the young boy on the table. It was late. 

She did her best work in the silence.

She cleared her mind, and closed her eyes. Nothing. 

She took his hand, held it gently for a moment. 

_Prayers._

So many prayers surrounded this child. There was some comfort in that, perhaps. 

She took a deep breath, adjusted her microphone, and began.

* * *

“Epilepsy.”

“Are ye sayin’ it was a natural death?” Jamie was confused. He looked at the notes he’d made in his book as he devoured his fourth piece of pizza.

Claire had come home from the morgue tired and hungry. So hungry she’d stopped and grabbed a pizza from the corner restaurant. Turning up her walk she found a tall, red headed Scotsman sitting on her front steps. 

She was embarrassed at how happy it made her. 

“Yes. You’ll get the official report soon, but all signs point to it. Increased lung and liver weights. Cerebral edema, lighter brain weight, structural brain lesions. Also, contusions, acute neocortical and brainstem hypoxic neuronal changes…all indicate -”

“English, Sorcha. Please,” he said around a mouthful of food.

“He suffered from seizures. Lots of them.” She took a sip of her wine. “There was something else.”

Jamie lifted his head sharply. “What?”

“Olive oil.”

Jamie pointed at his pizza. Looked at Claire. “Olive oil. Like, what ye cook with, olive oil.”

“Yes.” She wiped her hands on a napkin as she explained. “I’m certain that’s what it was. It was on his forehead, and his hands. I took a sample and sent it off to the lab.”

Jamie picked up his pen. Scribbled another note.

“There were a lot of prayers around him,” Claire said, softly. 

Jamie stood and went to his jacket. He rooted around in the pockets until he came out with another notebook. 

A caramel coloured notebook.

“What’s that?” It seemed familiar, but she didn’t know why.

Jamie held it up. “Oh, this? This one’s yers.”

“What do you mean, mine?” 

“I bought it when we were workin’ on the Geillis Duncan case. These are off-the-record notes. The ones I canna share, but have to support with actual evidence. The notes based on yer visions, not yer findings.” 

Jamie’s ears turned pink. “I bought it because the colour of it reminded me of yer eyes,” he admitted, shyly.

Claire blushed. _He did that? That was weeks ago. Well before… _Some days she still had trouble believing that he accepted her visions so readily.

“Anyway,” Jamie cleared his throat, “What about the bruising?”

Claire was grateful for the redirection. “Straps. Restraints. He was tied down. Wrists. Ankles. Across his chest. They must have been violent seizures to warrant such bruising. He would have bled a little too as the skin was rubbed raw in places.” Claire took her plate to the sink. “I’ve sent a blood sample to be tested, as well. We’ll find out what sort of medications he was on.” 

It was getting late. 

And she was getting nervous. 

She watched as Jamie scribbled in his book. His penmanship really was awful. He finished writing, closed the book and snapped his pen. When he looked up, Claire looked down. 

It felt awkward. Tense. Charged. 

She wanted him to stay the night. Again. But she didn’t know how to say it.

“Humpf….” Jamie made that Scottish noise he always did when he had something on his mind. He took his time stuffing his notebook back in his jacket pocket. 

He wanted to stay the night. Again. But didn’t know how to say it.

“You can…” she said.

“I was hopin’…” he said at the same time. The silence grew. “You first, Claire.”

She crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. Swiped at some crumbs on the counter. Looked up at Jamie.

“Stay?”

Jamie dropped his head. Smiled. Glanced up into those whisky coloured eyes.

“I thought ye’d never ask.”

* * *

“Sorcha?” 

From his office he watched as James made a call. He could hardly hear the conversation, just ‘Sorcha’. He didn’t recognize the name. But ten minutes later when she walked into the offices, he knew right away what was going on.

Because he knew her name. It was Claire. Dr. Claire Randall. The M.E. 

So this ‘Sorcha’ must be some kind of pet name. And pet names meant familiarity. And familiarity, at least in the case of James Fraser, meant more than friendship. He should know. One did not simply make friends with James Fraser easily. He was a guarded man, a cautious man. 

A man who once admitted to having an attraction to this woman.

He watched as she waited for James to notice her. She waved the envelope and in that split second when their eyes met he saw all he needed to see. 

James’ eyes softened. His posture straightened. It was subtle. But it was there. James jumped up and grabbed his jacket, badge and notebook. He didn’t bother to look back. 

_Damn you, James Fraser, _thought D.C.I. John Grey. _Damn you, anyway._

* * *

Jamie was sitting across the table from the boy’s father. A tape recorder ran between them. But it recorded nothing because the man wouldn’t talk. 

They’d had him brought in when the findings from the lab came back. There were too many discrepancies. And Jamie wanted answers. 

“Listen. All I want to know about are the bruises. How did he get the bruises ‘round his wrists and ankles?” Jamie looked at the solicitor for help.

She shrugged. 

“Because from where I’m sittin’, ken, it looks like ye tied yer son down and left him to die.” Jamie watched the man close his eyes. He pressed his advantage. “Like an animal.” 

The dad’s jaw clenched. 

Jamie was done. “I’ll have to charge him with Neglect.”

“But you have no evidence!” the lawyer insisted.

“Aye. I do!” Jamie snapped. “I have a wee boy with bruises on his chest, ankles and wrists. Skin rubbed raw. I have an expert witness who will stand up in court and swear the boy didna die at home.” 

Jamie stood up so quickly his chair wobbled behind him, threatening to fall over. He leaned across the table, his face close to the father. “Where did yer son die? Eh? Where did ye have him tied up?”

“Enough,” the solicitor stepped in.

“Aye. Enough.” Jamie straightened, grabbed his file, and opened the door of the interview room. He motioned for a uniformed officer. “Process him.”

* * *

Three days later, Jamie was working at his desk when D.C. Angus Mohr threw a newspaper onto his desk. He jammed his finger at a name in the Obituaries.

“What’s this?” Jamie asked.

“Caught me eye,” the little man said. “Same school as the boy we collected from the Funeral Home. Second death in as many weeks.” 

Jamie looked up as the other detective tapped his temple. “Got me thinkin’, you know? Raised the hair on the back of me neck.”

Jamie picked up the paper and scanned it quickly. Same school. 

Ste. Anne de Beaupré. Headmaster, Father François Anselm Mericoeur d'Armagnac. 

“Can I keep this?” he asked. D.C. Mohr nodded, slapped Jamie on the back, and walked away. 

“Cheers,” Jamie mumbled, already lost in thought. He dug out the caramel notebook to be sure. He found the entry he needed.

_Prayers, she’d said._ _Surrounded by prayers. _

* * *

They sat in a tiny coffee shop beside the Thames. The barges were at work. Horns honking. Seagulls crying. 

The pages of the lab report were strewn around them. He needed to go over them again. With Claire. He needed to talk about the latest death in connection with the school. With Claire.

Somewhere along the way the officer who never wanted a partner suddenly needed one. 

And he needed Claire. 

“So,” Jamie said, papers rattling in his hands, “the substance on the boy was olive oil, and sweet calamus.”

“Um-hmm,” Claire mused distractedly. “Used in Anointing of the Sick.” 

Her fingers flew over the keyboard of her laptop. 

“The school is small. Very small. I imagine it’s because of how rigorous it is.” Her hair was tied back in a messy bun. Pinned up hastily. One lone tendril corkscrewed down her neck.

“Rigorous how?” The answer lay in this school. He knew it. Felt it.

“Well, most Catholic schools give you a simple, very basic education of the Faith. Daily prayers, Masses for special events. This one says students participate in Daily Mass. Confessions every Friday. There are 3 priests on staff, besides the Head Master. The rest of the teachers are lay people. No cell phone policy. No personal electronic devices allowed. And the uniform is something out of the dark ages, really.” 

Claire looked over at him. “It’s not structured like most Catholic schools, but it’s not unheard of. A bit old-school, I guess.” She twisted the computer so he could see it. 

Jamie pulled it towards him to look more carefully.

Claire stretched, her back tight.

“The only thing that bothers me,” she said, “is the fact that he didn’t have any meds in his system.” 

Jamie gathered up the papers and put them back in the folder.

“I mean, there’s literally dozens of them. And in seventy percent of cases, they work wonders at controlling epilepsy!” As a doctor, this detail bothered her. 

As an intuitive, this detail screamed at her. 

He closed the lid on the laptop. “We’ll never find answers sitting here.” He drained his cup. “Come.”

“Where are we going?” Claire stood up, slipped her computer into her bag and reached for her jacket.

Jamie called back over his shoulder. 

“To enroll our fictional child.” 


	5. 2.5: Ste. Anne de Beaupre

> Ste. Anne de Beaupré was a long standing parish in London. 
> 
> Old. Settled. Desperately trying to keep up with the times.
> 
> She stood outside it’s gate waiting for Jamie to get off the phone. 
> 
> Well, waiting for Jamie to stop pacing and shouting into the phone.
> 
> “What d’ye mean I’m to leave off?” Jamie ran a hand through his hair making the copper tones glint and flash in the afternoon sun. 
> 
> “We don’t need trouble with the Catholic Church, James. You don’t have a warrant to search the school.” Detective Chief Inspector Grey’s voice was like ice. Jamie couldn’t understand why he was blocking this investigation.
> 
> “I’m no’ here to cause trouble. A boy is deid. His father’s in jail yet still refuses to speak to us. Another boy passed two days ago. Ye have to admit the circumstances are suspicious, to say the least. I’m just going to look around!” Jamie looked at Claire and shrugged dramatically.
> 
> “And with whom are you investigating?” Grey looked out of his office window. He knew the answer already. 
> 
> Jamie paused. His eyes narrowed. He could feel the anger bubbling. _Fuck you, John Grey. _But he answered him honestly nonetheless. 
> 
> “I brought the M.E. Dr. Claire Randall.”
> 
> “Of course you did. Because she’s a detective. Because she has so much experience in field work. Because -”
> 
> “BECAUSE -” Jamie shouted, then lowered his voice when John stopped talking, “she has a keen mind and a keener eye.” Jamie took a deep breath and tried to unclench his jaw. 
> 
> “I’m going into this school. Sir.” he said as an after thought. “I’ll be speaking to Father Anselm, the Head Master. And then I’ll report back in.” 
> 
> Jamie disconnected the call. 
> 
> The phone rang again almost immediately. Jamie muted it. Stuffed the phone in his pocket. 
> 
> “Jamie maybe we shouldn’t -” the last thing Claire wanted was to see Jamie in trouble. 
> 
> “I’ll do the talkin’, ken?” he pushed open the gate. “Ye just let me know what ye see.” 
> 
> * * *
> 
> “So what do you think, Dr. Fraser?” The priest looked over at the woman. Perhaps she didn’t hear him. “Dr. Fraser?” he said louder.
> 
> “Claire,” Jamie spoke. “Honey. Father is speaking to ye.”
> 
> Claire whipped around. _Oh, God._ She hadn’t caught her name. _Dr. Fraser, indeed_. Jamie raised an eyebrow at her, willing her to answer. 
> 
> She played with the ring on her left hand. Jamie’s father’s ring. He wore it on his little finger. She now wore it on her wedding ring finger. 
> 
> It felt strange. 
> 
> The vision it induced, stranger still.
> 
> “Well, it’s quite an old building, isn’t it? But the Science Lab saves it, to be honest.” She gave Father Anselm a small, tight smile. 
> 
> _Honestly. How does he do this? Undercover work, pretending to be someone else. Rather be elbows deep resecting a tumour._
> 
> “The recent updates have been a blessing. Your child is interested in Science?” Father asked politely as he led them back out into the courtyard. 
> 
> “Isn’t every child?” Jamie said, and smiled. “Might we see the grounds?”
> 
> He changed the subject. He had been quite adept up to this point of dancing around the question of a child. And after Grey’s outburst he dared not pretend there was one. 
> 
> With Claire wearing his ring, the quiet, grave woman at reception assumed they were married. When he asked for a tour from the Head Master she introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Fraser. He simply mentioned Claire was a doctor. 
> 
> No lies told. 
> 
> The long black cassock floated over the uneven cobbles as the priest walked in front of them. 
> 
> Speaking back over his shoulder he said, “We’ve good teachers here. And a strong community of parents.”
> 
> “Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it Claire?” When she didn’t answer Jamie turned around. 
> 
> Claire stood off to the side of the courtyard. Her body rigid. Eyes fixed. 
> 
> _Jesus, God, let me get there afore she stumbles, _he thought. He took three steps towards her before she spoke.
> 
> Loudly. Firmly. Aggressively.
> 
> “What is in there?” Her head turned slowly towards Father Anselm. Her eyes were cold. Her features, defiant. She was daring him to lie to her. 
> 
> She already knew.
> 
> Father Anselm moved towards her, his manner as friendly as ever. 
> 
> “Oh! Yes, well, that used to be a small chapel. We don’t use it, of course. It’s old…much too dangerous to go in there. It’s part of the original monastery, you know.” 
> 
> Father looked around fondly over the grounds. “So much history here.”
> 
> Claire walked towards the weathered wooden door. “James would love to see it. He’s quite a history buff, aren’t you, darling?”
> 
> Jamie took his cue. “Could we, Father?”
> 
> “Well, I’m not sure,” Father Anselm said. “I’m certain it’s locked. At the very least boarded up from the inside, I’m afraid.” He moved towards the building. 
> 
> Claire followed as if mesmerized. 
> 
> _Mary, Michael and Bride. Now is not the time for one o’ those visions that brings her to her knees. _
> 
> Father Anselm pushed slowly on the door. 
> 
> The ease with which it opened surprised the clergyman. 
> 
> Rustic didn’t begin to describe the inside. The old altar was one step up from the red tile floor. The chairs were wood and wicker. Prie-Dieu chairs, they called them. It was cold. Candles lined the back of the wall around a vividly carved crucifix and a painting of The Divine Mercy.
> 
> It all looked very normal. Very monastic. 
> 
> And very recently used.
> 
> Father Anselm stepped into the ancient room, muttering to himself. 
> 
> Jamie stepped up behind Claire. Close behind her. Just in case.
> 
> She stepped down into the chapel. 
> 
> Then she started to shake.
> 
> Shake like she was standing outside, naked, in the middle of a December night. 
> 
> Her teeth chattered. Her muscles spasmed. She felt Jamie’s arm curl around her shoulder. He pushed her two steps forward and sat her in a chair. Conversation hummed around her but she couldn’t concentrate fully to hear it. 
> 
> _Tears. Pleading. Desperation. Fear. Shouting. Prayers. Sorrow._
> 
> _Death._
> 
> Jamie was roaming around the small, close room. Scanning. Searching. Noticing. 
> 
> Metal rings under the edge of the altar table. Straps in a side drawer. Oils. Incense. Crucifixes. Holy Water vessels. Rosary beads. Bible. 
> 
> And traces of blood. 
> 
> She dropped her head. She knew now. 
> 
> Father Anselm was not the problem. But someone at this school was. And they needed to work fast. 
> 
> “Father,” Jamie said to the confused, worried old cleric. “Ye do realize I’m going to need to call this in.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> Jamie put Claire in a squad car, leaning across to help her shaking hands buckle the seat belt. Unnoticed by others he kissed her lightly on the forehead. 
> 
> “I’ll be over as soon as I can. Promise.” He withdrew from the vehicle, and gave the officer her address, along with a series of instructions. 
> 
> While she waited Claire looked up at the school. 
> 
> A chill shivered down her spine again. The woman at reception was looking out the window at her. Spine straight. Dull grey clothes. Lifeless eyes. 
> 
> Claire watched as the woman placed her hand on the glass, palm flat. 
> 
> Claire saw her suddenly, in that chapel. _Rosary in hand. Eyes shut. Blackness dancing around the room. Her words, chanting. Deliver us from evil. Miserere mei, Deus. _
> 
> Claire placed her hand on the window of the car in empathy.
> 
> She jumped when the officer slammed the door. The engine started and off they went. 
> 
> The woman watched her until she fell out of sight. 
> 
> D.C. Mohr and D. C. MacKenzie arrived with the forensics team. They oversaw the bagging of the religious articles. Watched as the team took swabs of the darker spots on the altar that resembled blood. 
> 
> Jamie took a formal statement from Father Anselm. There was one thing of which he was certain. The priest was blissfully ignorant of the goings on at his school. He did what he could to wrap up the scene. He sat in his car and watched the forensics truck pull away. He waved off Mohr and MacKenzie.
> 
> One thing left to do before he could check on Claire. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> He walked onto his floor at New Scotland Yard with his anger simmering. He headed straight to his Chief Inspector’s office. Stepping into John Grey’s room, he shut the door behind him.
> 
> “What the hell, Fraser?”
> 
> Jamie ignored him. He walked over to a small side table and pulled it out into the middle of the room. The chess board was already set up. Jamie pulled over a chair, took off his jacket and draped it over the back. Then, he sat. 
> 
> And waited for his boss to join him.
> 
> John Grey stood. Threw his pen on the desk. Reluctantly came out from behind it. Pulled a chair over and sat down heavily. Made the first move.
> 
> They played in silence for ten minutes. 
> 
> Finally, Jamie spoke. 
> 
> “I dinna need yer permission,” he said softly.
> 
> “You’ve lost your perspective. Your decisions are…compromised.” D.C.I. Grey moved his queen’s bishop. “Whisky?”
> 
> “I thank ye.” Jamie leaned over the board. Lost in thought.
> 
> Grey stood up and poured them both a drink. 
> 
> “James. You cannot take the M.E. out on police business. I forbid it.”
> 
> “It’s your move, Chief Inspector.” Jamie took a sip from the glass that was offered. 
> 
> Grey walked around the table and sat, glass in hand. He leaned over to take a pawn, and smiled. 
> 
> Jamie sat as still as marble. He finally drew a long breath. 
> 
> “A long time ago we sat here. Played chess.” He moved a rook. “And ye took a liberty ye shouldn’t have.” Jamie’s blue eyes pinned Grey to his chair. 
> 
> Grey knew that look. He’d seen it once before. Feared it. Feared that he had lost his career when that gaze struck him like a blow.
> 
> “I didna say a word to anyone. I simply told ye to take yer hand off me.”
> 
> “Or you would kill me,” Grey added.
> 
> “Aye.” Jamie took another drink and drained his glass. “So. Understand. I willna have ye tell me what I can and canna do with Claire.”
> 
> “Why, James?” Grey couldn’t keep the slight pleading from his voice. Hated himself for it, but could not stop it. “She’s really not that special.”
> 
> He did not expect James’ reaction. Could not have predicted it.
> 
> Jamie stood and in one smooth motion grasped the edge of the small table, and flipped it forward. 
> 
> Hard. 
> 
> Chess pieces flew. Caught Grey in the face. He didn’t move fast enough and the edge of the table caught his knee. The pain shot through John. He dropped his glass and it shattered.
> 
> John looked up into the dark blue gaze. He couldn’t look away, or blink. 
> 
> Jamie grabbed his jacket, and without a sound, left the room. 


	6. 2.6:  Interrogations

The rain pelting against the window brought him back to himself. He had dreamed. Images of Claire, dark swirling shadows, and crucifixes had woken him up. The rain grounded him.

He threw back the duvet and headed out to the lounge for his notebooks. 

Padded back into the bedroom. He sat on the chaise that was tucked away in the corner. The midnight hours were offset by the light from the street. He sat naked, window cracked to let a cooler breeze into the room. Rain still fell. Bouncing off the panes, off the sill. 

He opened the notebook and went over Claire’s visions. 

_Claire sat under a blanket on the chesterfield, muttering as Jamie tried to make sense of her. _

_“Barbaric. Ancient. Medieval.”_

_“Can ye stop berating a ghost for half a second and tell me what the hell ye actually saw?”   
_

_“Someone at that school uses that room for a sort of….” _

_She struggled to find a word. “A sort of Intervention, I guess is the best way to put it. Parents whose children are ill. He convinces them that it’s God’s will. _ _That their faith will heal their child. Not medicine. Not procedures. God. More specifically **their** faith in God. It rests on their shoulders. So when the child dies it’s them who has failed. Not God. And certainly not him.”_

_He could hear the tears in her voice. The frustration. Her hands were twisting now. Fingers pulled and rubbed. She rolled the edge of the blanket tight, then unwound it, only to roll it up again. _

_“It emotional blackmail. It’s unfair.” _

_Jamie could not tear his eyes away. She was so far away from this place and time. So ethereal when lost in the sight._

_“It’s unfair to put the burden of someone else’s life on their shoulders. It’s unfair to say that someone isn’t good enough because you say they are.” _

_“Claire.” She sat still, distant from him. _

_“It’s not my defect. It was never my defect. But I carried the burden.”_

_“Sorcha!” he said, louder. She flinched. Blinked. Finally focused on him.   
_

_“What defect?”  
_

He watched as Claire rolled over and the duvet slipped down her back. He could see the delicate bones of her spine. The long line of her back. The curve of her backside before the coverlet hid it. 

He sat, caramel coloured notebook in his hand. Pen in the other.

Armed with Claire’s visions he had called D.C. Mohr. Asked him to dig around and see what he could unearth about the Parish staff at Ste. Anne’s. If there were skeletons, Mohr would find them. 

The answer lay with the parish personnel. He’d leave the teachers for another day, to keep up appearances. He wouldn’t waste his own time, knowing what Claire had told him. 

He jotted a few questions he felt would lead the suspects to speak of the deceased children. 

After a while his mind drifted to the other mystery she revealed. 

_“I want to talk to the secretary of the school.” Her voice was tight. Adamant. Fierce. _

_“Nay. I canna allow it.” Jamie was shaking his head, “Chief Inspector warned me already that ye shouldna be involved. He’s already questioning my decisions. Telling me my reputation is at stake.”  
_

_“I’m telling you, Jamie, she’s lost a child. She reached out to me. Clearly she trusts me. She can tell us what we need to know.” Her voice rose in panic.   
_

_“And I will ask the questions to find out what she kens.” Jamie softened his words with a smile. “Trust me, Claire.”   
_

_She stared at him for a long time. Measuring. Deciding. Unsure._

_He had reached for her then. Leaned forward to kiss her. She closed her eyes in anticipation. She could smell the rain on his collar, feel it in the curls on his nape. She waited for his lips to touch hers. Instead, she felt his breath on her mouth._

_“What defect?” _

_She stiffened, but before she could close off completely, he kissed her. _

_Hard. Pressed his mouth to hers, flicking his tongue at the seam of her mouth. She let him in. Grabbed his lapels and kissed him back. _

_“Ye said, ‘it was never my defect?” he whispered again. “What did ye mean by that?”  
_

_“Nothing,” she breathed back, pulling him down to her again.   
_

_He came close, drew back. Wouldn’t give her what she wanted. _

_She tugged harder. He refused. Kissed her neck. Her forehead. Everything but her mouth. _

_“Me. I’m the defect.” She finally admitted, keeping her eyes tightly closed. “I’m too stiff in bed. Not inventive enough. And I can’t….I don’t….I’m not able to….a lot of the time. I’m not good at it.”_

_Jamie did kiss her then. With everything he had in him. _

_“Ye have wi’ me. Every damn time.” His voice was like silk. “And quite noisily, too.” _

_Her face flamed. She searched his eyes for any mockery. “I have no inhibitions with you. I don’t know why.”  
_

_“Well I do,” Jamie laughed, “For starters, there’s only ever been you and I in bed.”   
_

Claire shifted in her sleep, woke up. She checked beside her and noticed he was gone. Blind panic set in. She bolted from the bed heedless of her nudity. Went to the doorway.

“Jamie?”

“Here, love.” 

She turned to see him sitting on the chaise. He closed his notebook. Attached the pen to the cover, and set it on the floor.

She sighed in relief. Grabbed his shirt off the floor and slipped it on, buttoning only two buttons in the middle. Slashes of her skin shone in the dark. Flashes of her womanhood as she walked towards him.

She sat opposite him on the chaise.

“Are you okay?”

“Aye. A bad dream, is all.” He wouldn’t tell her what it was about.

“Was it my fault?” He had to smile at how predictable she was.

“Oh, aye, ‘twas,” he swung one long, muscular leg over to straddle the chaise and leaned back in invitation. “I think ye should make it up to me.”

Claire rose above him. Straddled him. Nestled her bottom into his lap.

“Tell me again how horrible ye are in bed,” Jamie said, mouth nudging aside the fabric to find her breast. 

Claire made a face. “I never initiate. I’m cold. I’m sexless. Making love to me is like making love to a corpse.”

Jamie’s head snapped up. “He said that?”

“Once,” Claire admitted. 

He parted the cloth and ran one long finger from her collarbone, between her breasts, circling her navel before dipping lower and snaking underneath her. She yipped when he touched her _there_. 

“That’s no’ a sound a corpse makes, Claire.” He ran his hands up over her hips and around to cup her bottom. “And this isna the soft feel of a corpse under my hands.”

Jamie tugged at Claire’s hips until she lifted up. He positioned himself and groaned in pleasure as she settled him inside her. 

“And dammit, mo neighean donn,” he moaned, “Yer anything BUT cold.”

* * *

Jamie took a moment to look around. Nothing of note. A picture frame with a woman in a wheelchair on his desk. A monthly calendar open to show appointments with marrying couples. Days for hospital visits marked off. Nothing suspicious. 

On the surface. 

“Reverend Father,” Jamie smiled, “I see ye do a lot of hospital visits.”

“Oh, yes. My personal mission, if you will. And Reverend will do. Or Father. We needn’t be so formal.” Reverend Campbell sat in his chair, his narrow shoulders slightly hunched forward. Jamie didn’t shift his gaze from the grey eyes. 

“Do ye just visit parishioners, then?” Jamie jotted down a couple of notes. 

“Yes, always. They are my first priority. I pray with them, and their family members. Try to cheer their spirits.”

“And ye visit the children,” Jamie said it as a matter of fact. “Ye visited a couple of the boys who have since passed. Untimely, no?”

“Very sad circumstances. Epilepsy. Cancer.” Reverend Campbell looked appropriately sad. “God calls those who he wants to come home, regardless of their age.”

“And who tells their parents to discharge them prematurely?” He caught the slight twitch to the man’s left eye. 

“What are you suggesting, Detective Inspector?”

“Nothing. Just wonderin’ is all.” Jamie flipped a few pages in his notebook. “Tell me, Reverend Campbell, who is Madame Jeanne LeGrand?”

The man froze. His face became a mask, eyes burning with shame. 

“Anyone else know about yer…’visits to the sick’?” Jamie leaned back in his chair, tapped his notebook on his knee. Campbell watched the rhythmic movement. He said nothing.

“Yer sister, Margaret,” Jamie nodded to the picture of the woman in the wheelchair. “She’s in a home, is she, no? A home payed for by the Diocese?”

_God bless D.C. Mohr and his relentless digging._

Jamie leaned forward, ready to go in for the kill. “So tell me, Reverend. Who are ye protecting? Who knows about yer dirty little secret visits to a whore house? Who’s holdin’ that against ye? And who are ye telling about the sick kids and their desperate parents?”

The tall, thin man swallowed. Hard. 

“Because I dinna believe for a minute a man who has taken care of his sister all these years, and given up the chance for a family of his own, is enjoyin’ what he’s doing to these young boys.” Jamie’s voice softened. “I dinna think ye would do such a thing, seein’ as how ye wouldna abandon her in her illness.”

Reverend Campbell looked trapped. Just the way Jamie liked his witnesses. 

“Please,” the older man whispered. “Please. Don’t.”

“Oh, Reverend,” Jamie smiled, blue eyes narrowed, “think of this as a confessional. I canna offer ye absolution, but I can offer ye a deal.”

* * *

Claire stood at the gate with two cups of take away tea in her hands. 

Amber eyes glued to the glass windows.

She didn’t have to wait long. The woman stood. Her eyes met Claire’s. 

Claire raised a paper cup in invitation. The woman disappeared briefly, then reappeared at the front door of the Parish House bundling herself in her coat.

Claire turned and sat on the bench outside the campus walls. Jamie had told her not to do this. She knew she had to.

The wrought iron creaked. She wasn’t as old as Claire had first thought. Grief had taken its tole. Claire handed her the tea.

“Ta,” said the woman, and took a sip. 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Claire said. 

The woman nodded. “Did Father Anselm tell you?”

“No.” Claire wasn’t sure how to explain. “I’m a doctor. I’ve seen grieving parents before.” 

The woman looked at Claire then. Her eyes were incredibly sad. “He had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.”

“He didn’t respond well to the treatments?” Claire took a sip, letting the woman gather her composure to answer.

“He did. While he had them.” The sentence hung in the air like a noose. Tightening around the truth. Threatening to squeeze out the secret. 

Claire steeled her resolve and reached out. Laid a hand on the woman’s wrist. The only bare skin she could reasonably come in contact with.

_She had pleaded with the man to keep him in hospital. To keep the treatments. To try both. What was the harm in both? The Devil standing there, pouring on the guilt, ignoring her attempts at reason. Throwing scripture in her face. In his face. Her shame in not fighting harder. _

_But overshadowing it all was her anger at God._

_Because she begged Him, too. On her knees. Deliver us from evil. Now. And at the hour of death. But please, God, deliver us. _

Claire pulled back. 

The woman looked at her strangely. 

“You can talk to him, you know,” Claire said. “You can trust him. He’ll bring whomever he must to justice.”

The woman’s tears slid silently down her cheeks. Claire reached into her bag for a tissue. Handed it over. 

“Your husband is in there now,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “He’s interviewing the staff. I fear my turn is coming.” 

Claire curled her hands around her cup. “He’s not my husband.” She looked at the secretary. “Sorry we led you to believe that.”

“Oh! I was wrong to assume. You seemed together.” The woman smiled, “But he is your partner. I’m not wrong there, am I?”

Claire stared off across the street. What was Jamie to her? Lover, yes. Friend, of course. Co-workers. 

Her heart lifted with the definitions. The potential. She would allow the dream. Just for the moment.

“Yes,” Claire said. “Partner.”

The woman nodded. She took another sip of tea. “I begged Him,” she looked skyward. “And him.” Claire assumed she meant her husband. “And _him_,” she spat. “No one would listen.” She wiped her eyes, and spoke through trembling lips. “In the end I suppose I got what I prayed for. My son was delivered from evil. The evil of his cancer and the evil of his pain. And the evil of that….that…._charlatan_.”

Claire turned her body to face the woman. “Just tell him everything. I promise you, the more information he has, the faster he can stop this man.”

She stood to go. She’d done what she needed, and saw what she could.

She looked up at the house one last time. Felt him staring at her.

“I promise you can trust him,” Claire said, “and if you need to talk, take this.” She handed the woman her card. 

_Dr. Claire Randall, Medical Examiner. Royal College of Pathologists. _Her phone number was in bold print at the bottom. 

Finished with her mission, Claire walked away.


	7. 2.7:  Visions and Notes

> “Do ye no’ listen to a damn word I say?” Jamie said, shaking salt on his chips.
> 
> “I’m not the meek and obedient type,” Claire said, splashing vinegar all over. She tore off a piece of fish and popped it into her mouth. 
> 
> “I specifically asked ye not to come. Not to talk to her.” 
> 
> They sat in a Fish and Chip shop close to New Scotland Yard. The place was small. Warm. Tables pressed tightly together. They sat side by side. 
> 
> Jamie said he couldn’t sit across from Claire. He said he could never fit behind the person at the next table. 
> 
> Claire didn’t care what his excuse was. She pressed her leg into his. 
> 
> “I never agreed to that,” Claire said around a mouthful of food. 
> 
> “Aye, ye did!” Jamie pointed a chip at her before eating it.
> 
> “No,” Claire was smug. “I didn’t. I climbed on top of you instead of answering.”
> 
> She watched as his memory ran through the conversation and subsequent action from that night. His posture relaxed. “Aye. Ye wee vixen, ye did.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Mmmm. Vinegar.” 
> 
> “Still,” he shook his head in disbelief. “Next time warn a man. I nearly died seein’ ye out front touchin’ her hand.”
> 
> He reached for a pen. “Tell me again what ye saw when ye touched her.”
> 
> “Um,” Claire swallowed. Reached over to stay his hand. “Wrong book, hon.”
> 
> Jamie stopped. _Hon. _He shook his head at the endearment. Smiled to himself. _So, Claire Randall. Have I softened yer heart a wee bit? _
> 
> He wiped his hands on a napkin. “Aye. Thank ye.” He dug into his pocket for the caramel coloured notebook. 
> 
> “She was in the hospital. The priest had come to visit, but he was mainly focused on talking to her husband. It was like she wasn’t there. She was trying to explain that they could keep up the chemotherapy, and do what the priest wanted, but he ignored her. Kept quoting scripture.”
> 
> “What did he look like?” Jamie’s pen was poised. “Did ye glean a name?”
> 
> “I couldn’t see his face. He was a big man, though.” Claire closed her eyes in concentration. “No. No name.”
> 
> Jamie scribbled and Claire took another bite. “I’m surprised Reverend Campbell didn’t tell you who it was.”
> 
> “Aye. Weel.” Jamie said around a mouthful of chips. “He’s scared of the man, whoever he is. He wouldna say a word without a lawyer. Chief Inspector is no’ happy wi’ me right now. Stirring up the church and such.” 
> 
> “Jamie?” Claire worried that her part in all of this would backfire. “Chief Inspector Grey….does he know about me?”
> 
> Jamie nodded, swallowing his bite. “Aye. He kens I have ye workin’ with me. Ye ken that. Ye heard me on the phone the other day.”
> 
> “I mean,” Claire pushed her food away from her, “does he _know_ about me.”
> 
> “Ye mean yer gift?” Jamie shook his head, “No. I’ve told no one.”
> 
> Claire relaxed. Jamie reached for her food. Pulled it closer to her. 
> 
> He leaned into her shoulder, whispered in her ear. “Now eat up. I’ll be wanting to see ye home.”
> 
> “Such a gentleman,” Claire whispered back. 
> 
> “Och. No. There will be nothin’ gentlemanly about what I do to ye when I get ye there.” 
> 
> * * *
> 
> D.C. Mohr gave Jamie a look across the room. Tapped the side of his head.
> 
> Jamie cocked his head to the side in agreement. This priest was as odd as they came. Jamie and Angus were continuing to interview the Parish staff. Jamie was purposely leaving the secretary until the end. He could tell she was anxious. Nervous. 
> 
> He wanted her near to breaking. 
> 
> At this point, he and Angus had been trying to talk to the man for the past half hour but he kept going off on these tangents. 
> 
> Father Fogden, despite his strong resemblance to St. Francis of Assisi, was not the picture of priesthood. He rambled incoherently most of the time. 
> 
> Ramblings that yielded some interesting comments in between. 
> 
> “One must make sure that the sheep are taken care of, that the flock is tended. The world is full of wolves, wolves that threaten our sheep. Curses. Plagues. Trials. Hardship. Burden. Affliction. Misery. Woe. Tribulation. Misfortune. Pain.” 
> 
> Jamie was scribbling furiously. 
> 
> “You would know him.”
> 
> Jamie stopped writing. The Priest was staring at him intensely. “You would know him. Aren’t you Scottish? You would know him. Bone. The Slayer.” 
> 
> Jamie was frozen to the spot. Riveted. “How would being Scottish help me know him, Father?” He shot a quick glance at Angus. 
> 
> Fogden blinked suddenly, as if he’d just noticed Jamie and Angus. “We have guests! What great fortune!” 
> 
> He yelled over his shoulder to the outer office, “Can we have something to serve our guests?”
> 
> He turned to Jamie. “Do you like Sangria?”
> 
> “No, thank ye, Father,” Jamie said, coming out of his shock. “Can ye tell us if ye’ve recently been in the old chapel on the grounds?”
> 
> The man’s back went ramrod straight in his chair.
> 
> “Oh no. No, not at all.” His black eyes fixed on Jamie.
> 
> “Spirits.”
> 
> Jamie felt a chill run down his spine. 
> 
> “Spirits, Father?” Jamie watched as the priest swayed a little in his chair. “Father! What do ye mean, spirits?”
> 
> The cleric slumped over, head lolling forward. 
> 
> Both officers’ heads swiveled to the door as the parish secretary came in the room carrying a tray of tea. 
> 
> “What’s wrong wi’ him?” Jamie asked, voice concerned.
> 
> “Drunk,” she said. And set the tray down with a clatter.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “Read the words to me again,” Claire said, pencil poised.
> 
> They were in Claire’s office at the morgue. It was quiet there. Private. 
> 
> Jamie ran through the list for the third time. Claire wrote down only the words that spoke to her.
> 
> Jamie was fascinated. He read them slowly. Her eyes were closed in concentration, “listening” more to her inner voice than his. She would shake her head if the word didn’t resonant. Write furiously if it did. 
> 
> She brought it down to four words. With the last two that she swore were connected to his name. 
> 
> Trials. Hardship. Woe. Pain.
> 
> Bone. The Slayer.
> 
> “And he said you should know him because you’re Scottish, is that right?”
> 
> “Humpf,” Jamie grunted. 
> 
> “Aye….hold on.” Jamie stopped and dug through his book for a sheet of paper. 
> 
> Claire’s mind was a chaotic mass of sensations. 
> 
> “Synonyms,” she mumbled. “That much is clear. And for you to know must mean that the words are Scottish in origin. But words don’t derive from Gaelic. They come from Latin or Greek.” 
> 
> She sighed. Looked up from her notes. 
> 
> “I’m sorry, Jamie. It’s all too much.”
> 
> Jamie was staring at the paper. 
> 
> Jaw clenched. Muscular throat working.
> 
> “Why that slippery wee bastard.”
> 
> Jamie snapped his notebook closed. 
> 
> “What?” Claire got up from her chair to look over his shoulder. “What did you find?”
> 
> He bolted before she could see.
> 
> “I’ve got to go.” Jamie’s long strides took him to the door of the morgue. He pushed open the door. Stopped. Walked back. 
> 
> Kissed her firmly on the lips.
> 
> “Call ye later.”
> 
> And he was gone. 
> 
> Claire placed a hand to her lips. 
> 
> _God. No. He can’t be walking into THAT. _
> 
> Claire grabbed her medical bag. Searched it.
> 
> Dammit. She’d need a couple of medicines before she could show up there. Time was of the essence. 
> 
> The hospital was two blocks from the morgue. She ran the whole way, driven by fear.
> 
> Panting heavily she made her way to the pharmacy. 
> 
> She was commanding. Authoritative. With an air of the busiest of doctors. She got what she needed. Bypassing paperwork. Bypassing protocol. 
> 
> Bypassing questions. 
> 
> Catapulted into action she didn’t even hesitate when the unknown number rang her phone. 
> 
> “I know it’s you!” she half-shouted into the phone. “Detective Inspector James Fraser is on his way!” 
> 
> She heard a sharp sob on the other end. 
> 
> “What’s happening?” Claire asked.
> 
> A small voice answered. It was the secretary at the school.
> 
> “He’s going to kill him.”


	8. 2.8:  The Chapel

> Ste. Anne de Beaupré was quiet. 
> 
> She couldn’t understand it. She assumed Jamie had rushed out to be here. She rang him in the cab and he hadn’t answered. She assumed he was busy at the scene.
> 
> She walked cautiously towards the abandoned chapel.
> 
> Stopped. Tried Jamie again. 
> 
> No answer. 
> 
> She tried to call the secretary back. Dammit, she didn’t even know her name!
> 
> No answer.
> 
> It felt wrong. But in a strange way it felt like it was supposed to.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Jamie was frantic. He hated the part of his job that required him to get a search warrant from the court. It could take hours. And he didn’t have hours. What if the man would knew he was being hunted? Only God would know where to find him then. 
> 
> _Mary, Michael and Bride, what is taking that Magistrate so long to sign a fucking piece of paper?_ He checked his phone out of habit. Two missed calls from Claire. No voice message. He stepped into the corridor to try her back.
> 
> No answer. 
> 
> She was probably at home, busy. 
> 
> He turned sharply when the door opened. D.C. Mohr raised the warrant triumphantly in the air. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Someone was in danger. She could _feel_ it. 
> 
> Claire walked slowly towards the old chapel. Pushed on the heavy door. 
> 
> They were there. The secretary. Another woman. 
> 
> A boy. 
> 
> He was on the altar. Tethered.
> 
> And the Killer. Rapt. Consumed. Misguided. 
> 
> Claire slipped in unnoticed, the rise and fall of the prayers disguising any sound. She could see the secretary trying to work at the knots of the straps without the priest seeing. She was participating in the prayers, as was the other woman, but her fingers were working frantically to free the boy.
> 
> Beeswax candles filled the air with their scent. The smell was clawing at Claire’s throat. The heat pressing down on her.
> 
> _From all evil, deliver us, O Lord._
> 
> _“Deliver us, O Lord.”_
> 
> _From all sin,_
> 
> _“Deliver us, O Lord.”  
_
> 
> _From your wrath,_
> 
> _“Deliver us, O Lord.”  
_
> 
> _From sudden and unprovided death,_
> 
> _“Deliver us, O Lord.”  
_
> 
> _From the snares of the devil_ _,_
> 
> _“Deliver us, O Lord.”_
> 
> The litany continued. He held a large, wooden crucifix over the boy. Eyes closed. Sweat beading on his brow. His large body swayed with the rhythm of his voice.
> 
> Claire stayed still so as not to attract his attention.
> 
> She focused on the victim. She could tell his breathing was laboured. Skin red. She needed to get closer to examine him more thoroughly. She weighed the risk.
> 
> To hell with it.
> 
> She walked forward, digging in her bag for her stethoscope. She would need to move fast. 
> 
> He didn’t see her right away. He was too deep into his ritual to focus on her. It wasn’t until she touched the boy that he exploded. 
> 
> “What blasphemy is this??” His jowls shook with the force of his anger. “You will not play God to this boy!”
> 
> Claire quickly looked the boy over as she jammed the stethoscope in her ears. Shortness of breath. Turning blue. Tongue swollen. Blood pressure dropping. Pulse thready. Clearly suffering from stomach pain. 
> 
> His anger heightened with her indifference towards him. 
> 
> “I am the Lord’s Disciple! You are not ordained to drive away the demon! Now leave this place!” His voice was graveled. Rasping. Outraged. 
> 
> “This boy is a slave to satan and must be purged!”
> 
> Claire tuned him out as best she could. She needed to focus on her diagnosis. 
> 
> Allergic reaction. She was sure of it.
> 
> She reached into her bag for the Epinephrine. 
> 
> The priest grabbed her arm and squeezed it tightly.
> 
> “I smell the vapours of hell on you.” His hand was like a vise. His mouth was close to her ear, breathing his hate onto her. 
> 
> Claire was assaulted by the visions. 
> 
> _The hound of Hell barking at him. Chasing him. Catching him. _
> 
> _Half mad, spittle falling from his lips. _
> 
> _At the pulpit. Expounding the idea that each child was filled with the Devil. His obsession with the idea of Satan roaming the Earth. _
> 
> _In the hospital. Every illness was a chance to prove God’s power. Convinced he was one of the chosen Twelve, sent to cast out demons, to anoint the sick with oil, to heal them. _
> 
> _In this room. Praying over the children. Anointing them in the name of the Lord. Lecturing parents on how their prayers of faith will save the sick. If anyone has committed sins he will be forgiven. He will save the sick man. God has used their suffering to bring about good. Suffering brings sanctification. _
> 
> Claire twisted in his iron grip. Would not let the visions take her under. 
> 
> She felt the unknown woman grab her other arm to steady her. Could hear the secretary crying out to let Claire help. 
> 
> She wrenched her arm free. In one smooth motion she turned on her heel, and raised her arm. 
> 
> She’d grabbed her scissors from the bag instead. 
> 
> Long handled, sharp, menacing looking things. She held them in her fist as if to strike him.
> 
> He recoiled. It gave her the time and space she needed.
> 
> She grabbed the boy’s pant leg and cut it open, reached back in the bag for the syringe, and holding his skin tight, plunged the tip of the injection into his outer thigh. 
> 
> The priest moved towards the door quickly. “Satan may like to make a fool of God. But God will have the last word.”
> 
> “Actually, Father Bain,” a thick Scottish accent said, “The Judge at yer trial will.”
> 
> Claire spun around in time to see Jamie shove the priest up against the wall, tying his hands behind his back. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> “I don’t even know your name,” Claire said, sitting quietly in a chair in the emergency ward’s waiting room. 
> 
> “Shauna,” she said, softly. “Shauna MacNeil. My son, Lindsey, was friends with Thomas.”
> 
> Thomas Baxter was currently in the back with his mother being monitored. Seems the Epinephrine bought him some time, but he still needed proper medical attention. 
> 
> “Thank God you came,” Shauna whispered.
> 
> “I’m glad you called,” Claire said. 
> 
> “What happens now?” Shauna’s dark eyes met Claire’s. 
> 
> “Well,” Claire sighed. “That depends on Detective Sergeant Fraser.”
> 
> “How did you know what was wrong with Father Bain?” Shauna’s dark eyes met Claire’s.
> 
> Claire shivered.
> 
> “Classic symptoms. Rare, mind you, but textbook symptoms nonetheless. Confusion. Hallucination. Excess saliva. I just needed to see if he’d been bitten.”
> 
> “Will he live?” Shauna asked.
> 
> “Well, Thomas should be fine. I think we got to him in time.” 
> 
> Shauna visibly relaxed. 
> 
> Claire continued, “But I think it will be difficult for Father Bain to recover from this virus. It’s been weeks. His central nervous system is definitely compromised.”
> 
> Shauna simply nodded. After a moment she spoke. “Rabies. Who would have thought? I mean, he said he’d been bitten by a stray dog. Father Anselm told him to get it checked. We just assumed he had.”
> 
> Claire sighed. She was exhausted. The sight of the priest’s festering, infected wound kept flooding her mind. The visions kept resurfacing. 
> 
> “He saw demons everywhere. He was hallucinating. It’s a symptom of the disease. In his mind he was performing exorcisms to save those children.” She turned towards Shauna. “I’m so sorry your son was caught up in this. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
> 
> “The truth is, Dr. Randall, my boy Lindsey was always sickly. I was bound to lose him. Maybe not as early as I did, but he couldn’t fight forever.” Shauna’s eyes filled with tears. “I miss him,” she said, choking out the words. 
> 
> Claire put her arm around the woman. She could feel Shauna’s loneliness, her grief, her bone deep sorrow. 
> 
> “I know,” Claire whispered. “I do know.”


	9. 2.9:  Case Closed

> As the hot spray pounded against her neck and between her shoulder blades, Claire could feel the day’s tensions wash away. Despite the candles in that close room, she felt chilled. Despite the fact that Thomas Baxter would be alright, she felt anxious. The close-to-scalding hot shower helped wash away the insanity of the evening.
> 
> She could hear the doorbell when she shut off the water. 
> 
> Insistent. Annoying. Continuous.
> 
> “What in the hell!” Claire wrapped herself in a robe, and grabbed a towel to work the water out of her hair. 
> 
> The ringing continued. 
> 
> She stormed down the stairs, knowing full well who would dare show up at this time of night. 
> 
> She checked the peephole. 
> 
> Jamie. 
> 
> His mahogany hair a tumbled mess as if he’d run his hand through the curls a dozen times. His face like granite. His eyes narrowed slits. 
> 
> For a brief moment she considered not opening the door. 
> 
> The bell rang again and she jumped. 
> 
> “Dammit, Claire!” He punctuated his curse by pounding on the barrier. 
> 
> She slide the chain free, then unlocked the deadbolt. 
> 
> “What is your problem?” she said as she flung the door wide. 
> 
> “Are ye mad, woman?” Jamie stepped into her foyer, anger radiating from him. He slammed the door behind him. 
> 
> “What are you talking about?” The water from her hair was dripping down her neck, snaking it’s way down her spine.
> 
> “Why would ye go to Ste. Anne’s? Why would ye no’ stay put!” Jamie jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from throttling her. 
> 
> “Shauna called me! I went to help. If I hadn’t the boy would have died!” She crossed her arms to keep from throttling him.
> 
> Jamie stood still. Breath laboured. Eyes closed briefly. 
> 
> “I’m waiting for you to say something. Anything, really, that resembles an apology.” She had to know she was wrong.
> 
> “An apology?” She was incredulous. Was he serious? “For what?”
> 
> “God, Claire!” he growled, grabbing her shoulders in his large hands. “Ye take it into yer mind to do as ye damn well please. Ye had no business going in there alone!”
> 
> “That boy was in danger!” Claire was livid. “I tried to call you. You didn’t answer!” She shoved at his chest, trying to break free from his hold. “I’m a bloody doctor. I’ll go wherever I’m needed!” 
> 
> When he didn’t release her she looked him square in the eye and spat out the the truth of it. “It’s your fault.”
> 
> “My fault?” Jamie’s russet eyebrows rose impossibly high. “How de ye figure that?”
> 
> “You kissed me,” Claire said. “And I saw what you’d be walking into.”
> 
> Jamie staggered backwards.
> 
> _Is this it then? _Jamie thought. _ Is this how it will be? Never being able to shield my thoughts? Being with someone who can access a part of me, but that I can never really know in the same way? _
> 
> Fear forced the next words out of his mouth.
> 
> “Ye told me ye didna see…with people ye were…connected to. So what is this, then,” he said, waving his hand between them. “We just get together for the occasional fuck?”
> 
> He felt the sting of her hand as it connected with his cheek. She hit him so hard his eyes watered. He breathed through the sharp pain, knowing he deserved it.
> 
> “Fuck?” Her voice was shaking.
> 
> He looked back to see her eyes dark with anger. And hurt. 
> 
> “Maybe that’s your style, Detective Sergeant Fraser, just like it was Frank’s. A casual romp with whoever’s handy. Do you like them younger, too?” She wanted her words to hurt.
> 
> “But that’s not me. I’m not so shallow. I don’t fuck men I’m not in love with.”
> 
> The minute the words were out of her mouth she wanted to snatch them back.
> 
> _Oh God, Claire Randall, you absolute fool. What have you done? _
> 
> Jamie’s smile was smug. 
> 
> “Ye love me.”
> 
> “I never said that.” Her voice was haughty. Clipped. Properly British. 
> 
> “Aye. Ye did.” He took a step towards her. “Ye said you have to be in love before ye share yer body.” She stepped to his left, and he countered, keeping her in front of him. “And ye’ve shared yer body wi’ me plenty of times.”
> 
> “I didn’t mean it.” Claire lifted her chin in a show of bravado. 
> 
> “Didn’t mean the sex? Or the words?” She wanted an interrogation, did she?
> 
> “Yer a terrible liar, Dr. Randall. Truly.” Jamie stepped towards her again, backing her up against the stair wall without touching her. 
> 
> “Just so we’re clear,” Jamie said, tilting his head, lips almost touching hers. “I’m in love wi’ you, too.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> “Tell me everything.” She slowly pulled his belt free from their loops.
> 
> He reached for the cloth belt of her robe. “The minute ye mentioned the word origins I realized I was comin’ at the clues the wrong way. Bone. Up near Inverness we say it ‘bane’.” 
> 
> He worked at the knot until it fell open to reveal her. “And the other words were all synonymous with bane. When I looked at the Parish staff list again it jumped right out at me. Father Bain.” 
> 
> He leaned down and kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
> 
> Claire shivered.
> 
> “How did ye ken what to do?” Jamie slowly pushed the fabric from her shoulders.
> 
> Claire worked at the button of his trousers. “I saw what you would be walking into. I could see how crazed a man Father Bain was. And the flash I got showed a boy clearly in respiratory distress.” 
> 
> Jamie sighed as the sound of his zipper filled the air. He swallowed. Hard. 
> 
> “I just….knew…what I would need. So I grabbed the supplies from the hospital and headed over there.”
> 
> “So, do ye still see us?” Jamie whispered. 
> 
> “I see quite a bit, actually,” Claire said, and slipped her hand into his pants.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “What do ye see now?”
> 
> “Oceans,” she said, looking into the deep blue of his eyes. 
> 
> “Fires,” she said, running her fingers through his hair.
> 
> “Come now, Sorcha,” he whispered. “Ye see nothing?”
> 
> “I’m not a Magic 8 Ball, Jamie. It doesn’t work that way.” 
> 
> The truth was she saw forever. When his lips met hers she saw a lifetime. She saw love and laughter and pain and sorrow. 
> 
> She saw everything she ever wanted, and more.
> 
> But she wouldn’t tell him that. 
> 
> Couldn’t. 
> 
> She was too afraid. It was one thing to admit she loved him, quite another to admit that she saw a future. 
> 
> Because Claire didn’t get futures. She didn’t get Happily-Ever-Afters. 
> 
> She got parents who died when she was five. She got an upbringing devoid of friends her own age. She got a husband who was never satisfied with or by her. She got widowhood at a young age. 
> 
> Hope was not something Claire was used to, not something she trusted.
> 
> But she could be somewhat honest. 
> 
> “I see you and I, Jamie. For right now, I see us.”
> 
> She rocked her hips, riding him slowly. Jamie closed his eyes and rested his head back against the headboard. He brought his knees up, felt her lean forward. He flexed his hips, needing to bury himself. 
> 
> She was fireworks. She went to his head like a strong whisky. She made him feel possessive, and protective. Jealous and proud, all at the same time. He didn’t understand it. Not one bit of it. 
> 
> But damn if he didn’t like it.
> 
> Liked being owned by her.
> 
> Even liked the fear that coursed through his veins when he opened the door to the chapel and saw her, syringe in hand. 
> 
> She made him feel alive, every sense on high alert. She gave him the same rush being a cop did. 
> 
> As she moved a little faster, and ground herself against him a little harder, he met her stroke for stroke. 
> 
> And when she shattered around him, he held her firm and drove into her until he lost himself. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> “See ye later?” Jamie took a last sip of the coffee she’d made, and set the cup down on her counter. He slipped on his coat. 
> 
> When he looked up again she was standing there, palm outstretched, arm extended. 
> 
> His heart stopped.
> 
> Then pounded double time.
> 
> He looked at her. God, she looked so vulnerable. Emotion swelled, but he controlled it. 
> 
> He reached out and took what she offered. 
> 
> So shiny. So new. 
> 
> He nodded, and reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out his key ring, and slipped hers easily through the metal circlet to nestle next to his. 
> 
> He couldn’t help the grin that split his face.
> 
> “Ye love me.”
> 
> “Shut up.” She blushed. “I debated, you know. I’ve never seen your place and here I was getting a key made for you.”
> 
> “Och, my place is shit,” Jamie said. “But if it will make ye feel better I’ll get it fumigated and have ye over this weekend.”
> 
> “Fumigated?” Claire laughed. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
> 
> He pocketed the keys with one hand while he tugged her closer with the other.
> 
> “Ye love me,” he said again, wrapping her in his arms.
> 
> She wound her arms around his neck. “Don’t be smug. You love me, too.”
> 
> She ran her hands over his jaw as he kissed her. 
> 
> A kiss filled with promise. 
> 
> And unfortunately for Claire, filled with hope.
> 
> **CASE CLOSED**


End file.
